Spring Returning
by vine
Summary: They are older, yes. They have grown in the last five years, left adolescence behind. But childhood is a hard stage to let go of, as they will all find. The last of winter's breaths is blowing them home, just in time for another Spring.
1. Home

I own nothing. This is an idea based off of a misunderstanding I had the first time I watched the play. Let's see where it takes us, shall we?

To anyone who reads my other stories: I apologize for the wait. I have been away for three weeks, and in those three weeks, my computer broke. It is now up and running, and new chapters should be coming your way pretty quick here. :)

Anyone who can guess who's point of view this is in gets cookies.

* * *

It was almost dark when she reached town. Still, before she even dropped her bags off at the inn, she made her way to the church, and the small graveyard tucked away behind it.

The graveyard had grown since she had last visited. That was one thing you could always count on with people. There were always deaths to be mourned and forgotten.

The swift spring breeze still had enough winter bite at it to numb her arms, as she pulled her shawl tighter around her. A part of her wanted to leave this visit for the morning, when the sun was out, warmth tickling her skin. In the daylight, surely the wind would not sound so eerie, the shadows so menacing.

But then she was there. Looking down at the grave in front of her, a tightness in her throat had her struggling for breath. Moritz Steifel.

"Poor Moritz." Her whisper swept around her, and she bent down, running her hand down the boy's stone, all that remained of him now. It had been almost five years. How many people remembered him? Did anyone? Or did they just push him aside, as they had when he was alive? Well, no matter. Their hands were stained with this, no matter how many times they tried to wash them clean. Her eyes were stinging, the last bits of dusk making the words swim. Perhaps that was why it took a moment to find the second grave.

But there it was. A few plots to the left lay Wendla Bergmann. Rubbing at her eyes, she read over the inscription. Died of anemia. Of course she did. The visitor put a hand over her mouth, trying to keep back a sob. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come back. Maybe it would have been better to leave this all buried.

Something made her pause, however. Something that told her it had been right, to come back. Someone had been looking after these graves, these graves, so free of clutter and overgrowing vines. She spared a moment to wonder at who. It was not the parents, that much was known. One of them, at least, had stayed.

Wiping at any remaining tears that lingered on her cheeks, she stood, brushing away the dirt that had collected on her knees. It was completely dark now, and her eyes felt swollen with the tears they had shed. She would come back with fresh flowers in the morning, she silently promised the graves. It was only right.

Picking up her lone bag at the edge of the graves, she continued back to the main road. Her feet traced familiar paths, and she hardly had to pay attention to where they took her. They knew the way. Suddenly, she felt fifteen again, innocent and free, standing with the other girls, wishing for children or no children, giggling as the boys went by. Such a long time ago.

Finally, she stopped. Dropping her bag at her feet, she ignored the nervous feeling in her stomach as she rang the inn's doorbell. Memories were worth little now, nothing more than smoke and smiles from an easier time. As she heard footsteps approaching, her heartbeat began to race. Would she recognize her? Did she want to be recognized? Maybe it wouldn't even be her, just some faceless husband her parents had found for her, or even worse, a complete stranger, saying that she had gone, that they were all gone, and that she should never have come back.

The door opened.

A familiar figure was standing behind it, pulling on a coat over her nightgown, and the girl standing outside let herself grin. They were older, yes, but one of them, at least, was still the same child she had once known.

The woman inside was already talking. "Here, come inside. It's a chilly night. Are you looking for a room?" Then she looked, really looked at the girl in front of her. The coat she had been struggling with slipped to the floor, and she brought both hands to her mouth. Her eyes were wide.

"Impossible."


	2. Names

Melchior Gabor stared at the trees as they whisked by, trying to concentrate on the train's speed, and not the crumpled letter that was still clutched in one tight fist. For what felt like the hundredth time since he had received the letter, he wondered if he had made a mistake in returning home.

He wouldn't stay for long. Just enough time to say hello to the old faces of people he no longer had any right to call friends. Long enough to assure his mother that he was fine. She sounded so worried in the letter, and his stomach clenched with the familiar feeling of guilt.

And he would pay a visit to the graveyard. Yes. It was only right, and he owed it to them. It was the only thing left that he could do. Whisper a few lines of some nonsense he had stopped believing in, let apologies fall from his lips. Too late, far too late. Leave flowers on the hard stone, to stay pretty for a day or two, until they outlived their usefulness, and withered like memories.

Would anyone even be left? He hadn't been home in so long. Perhaps he would return to find that he did not have enough flowers to mark the graves of the children he had once ran with. Back when girls could be pirates too, and the church was still a place of wonder and peace. Or maybe they had all disappeared like Ilse, vanishing into a dream world of smeared lines and the sharp smell of paint. Maybe there was no one left to see.

The train rolled to a stop, and there was bustle and movement. When the train finally began to move again, he was one of the only people in his car. Well of course. There was nothing special in his home town. Not even for him. All that awaited him was his mother's fears of dying, and his father's strong assurances.

_"He'll come back when he's ready, Fanny. Leave the boy alone."_

His fingers wound themselves tighter together. Again, the thought that this all was a terrible mistake flashed across his mind. Every time, it grew harder to ignore. If he rode this train until his town flashed by, then to the next stop, or the one after that, no one would know. He had not written saying that he had finally given in to his mother's pleas. No one would be disappointed if he just rode the tracks past all of the confusing thoughts, emotions he had ignored for the best of five years.

The letter had started out normal enough. Gossip about those he didn't care for, never any mention of those he did. The preacher had said this. The crop was good this year. Father was out hunting.

But then she had gone on to mention that Frau Bergmann had passed away, less than a month past. 'Just think,' Mother had written, and Melchior had noticed that her writing had grown more tense. 'We were almost the same age. And now she has passed on. It makes me wonder how much longer I have.' The note had finished with the same ending as ever, her begging him to return home, but after her dark ponderings a few sentences before, the requests took on a sinister tilt.

His mother should know better than to mention the strangeness of watching a classmate pass, though perhaps she did not see the connection as easily as he. Of course not. He had the type of eye that showed him the connections in everything- if he wasn't careful, all those threads would lead back to her, and to him, and to how Melchior could have changed it all.

"Who are the flowers for?"

Melchior jumped at the young, inquisitive voice, and turned to look at it's speaker. She was a thin slip of a girl, with a face still round with infant-hood and bright wide eyes. The white dress she was wearing brought a startlingly clear image of Wendla to mind, and Melchior had to distract himself from the girl by glancing up and down the train car. Not one of the few occupants seemed particularly concerned with the girl, and he frowned.

"Where's your mother?"

The girl smiled widely, revealing two missing front teeth. "Mama's waiting for me at the station!" She cried, in the innocent excitement only a young child could muster. "I get to ride train all by myself!" She looked very proud of this fact, and Melchior blinked. The girl couldn't have been more than six. Surely she wasn't all by herself.

Just then, a harried, tired looking face appeared at the door heading to the rear of the train. The man's eyes strained for a moment, flickering though seats, before relaxing visibly as they came to rest on the girl. He nodded to Melchior, attempting a smile that only succeeded in making the man look more nervous than he already was.

"Thank goodness she didn't wander far!" The man took a few unsteady steps towards Melchior and the girl, before stopping, face pale and drawn. "Is she bothering you, Herr? I'm supposed to bring her to her guardian, but trains wreak havoc on my stomach." As if to prove his point, the train took a corner with a lurch, and the man's complexion took on an interesting green tint.

"She's not bothering me," Melchior began, but the man had already disappeared behind the door again. He sighed, and chanced another glance at the little girl, who had crawled up onto the chair across from him. It was tall enough for her feet to dangle more than a few inches above the ground.

"Who are the flowers for?"

That question again. Melchior grimaced, and looked again at the trees passing them by. "Friends of mine. I haven't seen them in a long time." It wasn't a lie. Lying to a child would feel wrong. Especially when is seemed that the closer he got to his birthplace, less and less time had passed since it was him, young and wide-eyed, asking the questions.

"They're pretty!" The girl giggled, clapping her hands in a noise that seemed too loud for her small hands. So easily pleased. They had all been.

"Thank you." He didn't take his eyes away from the trees. So peaceful they all looked, the small towns tucked between clearings. So simple. So far from the truth.

"What's your name?" The girl had taken to kicking his battered suitcase. It was a steady beat, but with the feeling of the train beginning to slow underneath them, it sounded nothing but ominous.

To get his mind off of what was in front of him more than anything, he turned to face the child, a hollow smile on his lips. "Melchior. What's yours?"

She really did have beautiful eyes, and Melchior felt a sudden uncontrollable flash of envy for this girl's mother, who was careless enough of what a gift she had, letting her daughter ride the train to follow her into nowhere. Was this what their daughter would have looked like, had she had a chance? Or would they have had a son, with short copper curls like his, and his mother's smiling lips.

This girl did not really look like Wendla. That had been memories speaking again. Her long white dress was nothing like what Wendla used to wear, and her dark hair had obvious curls to it, unlike Wendla's relatively straight tresses. It had been a mistake to come. Too many memories.

The girl giggled again, and stuck out her chest. Proud, like any small child, of an identity they had been given to fill. "Lies! Lies Gabor!"

The train ground to a halt. So too did Melchior's heart.

* * *

A/N: Lies is pronounced Lees. Yes. More about this particular name choice will come in next chapter. Thank you for all the wonderful reviews, and I hoped you enjoyed the second chapter! I believe that three people have guessed that the first chapter was in Ilse's point of view, whereas two of you believed it to be Martha. Has this chapter changed your ideas? I believe it will be revealed in the next chapter. ;)


	3. Shattered

This is a filler chapter, though it hints at plot points. My friend just watched Spring Awakening for the first time, and was heartbroken to watch her favorite character fall apart. A full chapter will be up by the end of tomorrow at the latest. Thanks for all the wonderful reviews, and I hope you bare with me for this chapter. It's a test of sorts for a style I wanted to play with. Feedback of any sorts is loved and appreciated. As are any questions. (I am expecting quite a few) This chapter may disappear, depending on when I am next lucid. I am writing this while unable to see the computer straight.

* * *

The ghost sat atop his gravestone, staring in a sharp interest so unlike his usual drifting. This was a development, this girl kneeling in his dirt. How curious, curious.

A wind blew, and he shivered as a stray tendril of winter chill curled around him. Winter was a cold season, one that he had to be watchful not to be caught in, frozen in place as he watched gravediggers struggle to break the frosted ground.

_'I passed out in the snow. I just lay there, unconscious, all night!'_

Memories had started to swirl and combine. Sometimes, he had trouble remembering what thoughts were his and what he had just borrowed from the figures that truly mattered. It hadn't really been that long ago, had it? He had just wanted away, and now he was here again. Forever, maybe. And where did the other souls go? If that was really what he was. He never saw another like him. Waiting for long nights and short processions, ready to welcome the companion that never showed. Was it something he had done? Was it because he had taken his own life? (he had taken his own life, right?)

How long had it been?

It had been exactly five years since he had seen this face. This last face, one he had chased away and never expected to see again. Suddenly, time made sense.

It was the only time he had ever been seen. How? And who better than Melchior, who had always been there, but never present. Or was that the other way around?

People thought them an odd pair. Even when children, when they still ran through the rain with little mind to the scandal of it all. The four of them, and the other children's jealousies. For who didn't wish for the forwardness of young Gabor? The nerves of laughing Ilse? The kindness, the passion of their fairy queen, little Wendla? And him... Where had he fit in?

He let his body drift, tired of holding on. Remembering was hard. His father had always said- What? What had his father always said? That he was a failure? Not worthy of the work his parents had put in?

Children were no investment in Father's bank. Children were a risk. Like mixing part of your soul with a piece of someone else's, hoping it would turn out alright. God. Everything was so much simpler when you could pass through things if needed. So much easier to see through see-through materials straight through.

Flowers were wonderful. Why hadn't they learned about flowers in school? His old friend (they were friends. She was his friend, at least) had brought beautiful white ones that glimmered in moonlight. Like shooting stars. Like Ilse's eyes. Like the smoke off a gun.

Not that he had ever seen a gun go off. His dad has- had- one. Moritz held his head, and felt his body sink into the thawing ground. Maybe he had floated to pieces again. The pirate wasn't here yet. The maiden was on her way. Or was it the angel? Lost again.

Spring was coming, he thought. It was so much easier to think in the spring. Spring was a happy time, once.

_'Heaven must feel like this.' _

Only less dark. Lit by shooting stars and lifelines.

Ten minutes ago, things will be brighter. The angels promised.


	4. Visiting

It was a Sunday.

The wind finally had a hint of warmth to it, and Ernst smiled as he left the church and headed towards the graveyard behind it. The season had been a long, hard one, and only good could come of it's ending. Maybe in a few weeks it would be warm enough to take a detour to the vineyard with his sketchbook. He had grown tired of winter's still life.

There were already flowers on the graves he had come to visit, and a smile graced his lips. Someone must have come before church, or even last night, leaving white petals in their wake. Perhaps Anna? She had been missing from church, though. Ernst's stomach twisted. She was probably just a little under the weather. There was a flu going around.

Even with these assurances, he decided that a visit to the inn was in order. He hadn't seen her in a while anyway. She had been so busy with her parents' business, and whenever they did cross paths, she was in much too much of a rush to do anything more than flash him a small smile.

Laying a bright wildflower on each of his friends' plots, he folded his long body into a sitting position, and closed his eyes. What had been a necessity after the deaths had now become a tradition, one that Ernst had taken to even looking forward to. It was here, in front of children he had once known, that he could think about all of the things he pushed out of his mind during sermons. Such as a certain blond. He had always demanded attention, and here Ernst could give the memories of him attention without any passing feeling of guilt.

In church, he prayed. Here, he merely requested, lips moving silently over well-worn words. _'Please, watch over Hänschen as he trains. Maybe a visit home soon?'_ The words hardly ever changed, but every once in a while, Ernst had to add that bit of hope. Hope that Hänschen thought of the past too, and would abandon the huge world out there for a little while, come back to his roots. Even if it meant nothing, even if it was only a phase. Ernst would rather have Hänschen as a friend than the nothing they were now. All he had to do was come home.

This personal request was never answered.

(his heart ached when he began down that path, so he quickly jumped ahead, almost stumbling in his haste)

_'Please, watch over Anna. She is worried over books and logs.' _Here, on bright days like this, Ernst could almost imagine two ghostly figures in front of him, nodding as he brought what news he could of the ones that were left. _'Please, follow Georg when he leaves this summer. He will be lonely without his piano.'_ Not that Ernst had talked to the former classmate lately. He hardly talked to anyone. But people had a nasty habit of forgetting he was there, letting their eyes slip over his hunched figure, as he sketched a scene they were walking. _'Otto talks of leaving, but he will not. Everyone says so.'_ Ernst bit his lip, then whispered the next bit out loud. "Frau Gabor speaks of Melchior returning again. She will need strength to get through another disappointment."

Hearing a noise, he stumbled to his feet, embarrassment obvious on his cheeks. Artist's soul or not, talking to the dead was hardly something that could be overlooked. Still, he couldn't resist a little dip of his head in the headstones' directions. "Thank you."

He had just picked up his satchel when the footsteps crested the hill. The girl started at seeing him, and Ernst watched as her wide eyes fixed on the flowers already on the graves.

"Hello." Ernst smiled shyly at her. The girl was Martha, if he was not mistaken. They had never talked, not that he could recall anyway, but she would sometimes smile at him in the marketplace, and there were a few hurried pencils of her, tucked away in his drawing case.

"Hello." Her voice was higher than he expected, and she sounded a little winded, as if she had ran up the sloping hill from the church. In her hands were a few bright forget-me-naughts, and he shifted out of the way with a nod.

"Nice to see you," he muttered, letting her pass with a nod. Next time he saw her, there would be more understanding in their glances. They, at least, had not forgotten the ones who were missing.

If she said anything in reply, he didn't hear it. He was already halfway down the hill, heading towards town and Anna's inn.

It took longer than usual for Anna to come to the door. Ernst's heart began to speed up, though it really had no reason to. She was probably just busy with one of the hundred things that needed to be done to keep this place running.

None of those things required tears. When Anna finally reached the door, there was a telling redness around her eyes, and she refused to open the door wide, only poked her head out. She wasn't even looking in his direction.

"Sorry, we're closed for today."

"Closed?" There was something wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. Ernst's fists clenched, trying to hide the fact that they were shaking. His odd feeling had been right. "Even for old friends?"

"Ernst!" Anna's eyes grew very wide as she stared hard at him while his heart sped. Finally, she bit her lip, before beckoning the boy inside. "Fine, fine. Come sit. But only for a bit! I'm really very busy-"

Ernst stepped inside, worried that he should be doing something other than wringing his hands and trying to breath steadily. "You are always busy, Anna. I know."

She was obviously distracted. Even her chuckle sounded strained. "Do you want something to drink? Eat?"

"I am not hungry."

"I'll just go and get you some food!" Anna bustled off towards the pantry, hoping that her other guest didn't choose this time to wake up. Her mind was fluttering about, trying to wake up after such a long night, as her fingers reached for the bread.

Ernst was left in the entrance, frowning in obvious confusion as he closed the door behind him. Was Anna in trouble? Was that it?

Footsteps on the stairs behind him. A voice- it sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"Anna? I thought I heard-"

The voice cut off, and there was a muffled gasp. Ernst turned, having no idea what he would fine standing behind him.

Anna was almost finished with Ernst's sandwich when the door to the kitchen crashed open. Ernst stood there, struggling for breath, his eyes wide and half-crazed. But his voice, when he finally found it, was remarkably calm. It was the unsure, wavering voice Anna hadn't heard him use in years, but it was calm.

"Anna?" His hand was holding onto the door frame tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He was even paler than usual. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

* * *

Another update. So, the innkeeper is revealed. There are hints galore in this chapter, and next chapter, Melchior returns! Thanks to everyone who is reading, and double thanks with fresh cherries and grapes from Ernst for those who review!


	5. Hello

Melchior watched little Lies Gabor step merrily from the train, turning to wave at him as her watcher pushed her forward, face pale with relief. Melchior felt sick. Oh God. Was she a cousin? Had to be. Aunt Lisa was with child when he ran away. A weak way out. Even his shoulders did not fall for these assurances. They were still tense, as if prepared for a fight.

Any faces around him seemed to fade away, as his eyes seemed to be stuck on the small child. If he could just follow her out, he could ask the man with her how, exactly, she was a Gabor, and who her mother was. If he could just follow her a small while, just until he could meet her mother, explain his interest-

"Melchior?"

He jumped, trying to see who had hailed him. A young man stood behind him, looking out of place in the quickly emptying station. There was an unsure look on his face. As soon as their eyes met, the uncertainty vanished, and he smiled widely.

"I thought it was you!"

Melchior did not know this man. There may have been something familiar in the mouth, or the wide cheeks, but-

No. "Otto? Otto Lammermeier?" Staring at his old classmate who was now a man, Melchior finally saw the full expanse of his decision to come home. His stomach churned. He did not want to make small chat, catching up with people he no longer knew. But, to his surprise, nothing could dull his smile. There had been two faces prominent in his mind these last few long years. Sometimes though, between bouts of regret and anger, somewhere in the deep plains of floating on nothing, their faces would surface. His pirates and indians, his classmates and dreams. They never stayed long, but he missed them while they were there.

"We thought you would never come back." Otto had grown taller, so that he was looking down at Melchior now. Surreal. There was still a familiar roundness to him however, a softness to the obvious lines of his muscles.

"I didn't really think I would be coming back either," Melchior admitted. "Where are you off to? Or did you just arrive?"

There was a redness to Otto's cheeks. "Just here to pick up the mail, really."

His blush puzzled Melchior, but he couldn't pretend to know what was usual for Otto now. "Oh. Well, I had best let you get on with that." He turned to leave, feeling as though he should say something more. Ask how everyone had been, these long years. Had anyone married? Had children? Died? But something kept his mouth shut. Probably because he didn't want to know.

"Melchior?"

He stopped, looking over his shoulder at Otto's waiting figure. "Yes?"

"You'll be around for a while, right?"

And the pieces of something resembling friendship made it impossible to sy anything like no.

"Yes. I'll stay for a short while."

Melchior was almost out of the station when Otto calls out again.

"You- you know that Wendla died?"

The boy's eyes close, knowing that they had no tears left to cry. "I know."

He left Otto standing there, something like sympathy resting on his now grown features.

The little girl was long gone. Melchior told himself it didn't matter. Coincidences were nothing of importance. The days where he used to think that there were no such things as coincidences were over, and his grip on his suitcase handle grew tighter. He had more issues to deal with now.

He thought of straightening his shoulders as he set off towards his destiny, but he had never been much of a romantic. Instead, he hunched his back to protect himself from the spring chill, and set off towards the town center. Towards Mother and Father. Towards home.

When he passed the church, memories of his last visit there grew fresh in his mind, and he almost turned around, fled as he had the last time. But no. He had come too far. His footsteps sped up, slowing only after the church was completely out of sight.

He would draw the line at sleeping in his own room, though his mother assured it was ready for his return in every letter she sent. Of course. The rest of the town thought he had stayed at the reform school. And going abroad after graduation was not unheard of. He had, in fact, chosen the perfect time to come home, matching with the lies seamlessly. How nice for his parents, who had begged for months after finding he had run away from the hell they had sent him to, to come back home and back to them.

The anger he harboured with them was something he had dismissed after the first year gone. Anger with the schoolteachers and Wendla's parents were much sharper, even now. If a few things had been done differently, then maybe- but no. None of that.

And there he was. Home sweet home. Tentatively, he set his suitcase down, and raised a hand to knock. He stood frozen like that for a solid minute, before rapping his knuckles against the dark wood. He pulled away as if burned.

Footsteps inside, bustling about. His mother, most likely. Home from church, preparing a nice Sunday dinner for his father, who had probably snuck away to talk with other fathers and business men. He doubted that a routine that had remained unbroken all through the years he had been growing up would have changed in the few he had been gone.

And sure enough, his mother answered the door with a distracted smile, wiping her hands on her apron. "Hello?"

Her eyes traveled up, taking in his travel-worn clothes. Melchior watched her eyebrows crinkle with a painful familiarity. And then their eyes met.

There was a moment, where Melchior later realized he had been holding his breath. The only thought that passed through his mind at this moment was that she had more grey hairs than when he had seen her last.

"Melchior?"

He nodded, but her arms were already wrapped tight around him, and her head was buried into his shoulder. Quiet, hiccuping sobs were escaping her, and for a moment, he didn't know what to do.

Then he wrapped his arms around her, sighing. For the first time in the last five years, he felt homesick.

"Hello, Mama."

Across town, Anna opened the door to her inn to let in a young, smiling girl.

After Anna had bid Marcus to come in as well, Lies politely introduced herself to the older girl, but didn't understand why she was crying. People are not supposed to cry and smile at the same time, after all. Anna led her through a nice sitting room, where a tall boy with black hair and reddened eyes stared at her with a shy smile. But Lies didn't care to much for him. She was much more focused on the lady sitting across from him, who stood up with a wide smile on her face.

"Lies!"

Lies ran to the woman, who was really only a girl, and wrapped her arms around her legs. Laughing, she picked her up, pulling her into the safety of her arms. No matter where they were, this was home to Lies. Always had been, as long as she could remember.

Mama's hug was tighter than usual, but Lies didn't mind. She snuggled closer, a smile stretching her child cheeks wide.

"Hello, Mama."

* * *

A/N: So, I finally updated. Whew. This was a really hard chapter to decide where it was going, and I'm not really sure if it was a great chapter after all that, either. But I've started this chapter over about five times now, and I'm tired of it. :)

This is a transition chapter, with a huge hint and some familiar faces, too. Hope you liked, and drop a line with whose POV you want to see next! I'm pretty wide open at this point.


	6. Dreams

A/N: So, you may have noticed that this story, though having a plot and forward motion, does not have a very consistent narritive. Likewise, it has a very strange muse. This chapter is actually two short pieces, stuck together, though they all have the same theme. The second one is told from two different narritives, and I hope you are able to make sense of it.

I apologize for the shortness of this chapter, and the fact that not much is moved forward. However, some key facts are revealed. I hope that at least a few readers have stuck with this. Thank you.

_Dreams_

Part I: Waking

It was the night before everything fell apart again. The adults that held memories of children inside of them tossed and turned. They would need a good night's sleep. They would need their strength for tomorrow.

Instead, they dreamt.

Some dreamt of memories.

_ He winced, pulling away from the embrace. His heart, so unpredictable around this boy, had gone completely silent._

_ "You're leaving?"_

_ The blonde wouldn't look at him. "Tomorrow. I'm to join the military."_

_ His eyes welled with tears, and he reached for the boy. "You- you can't. We could leave, we could run away..."_

_ The boy yanked his arm away, as if the younger boy's touch burned him. Disgusted him._

_ "That would mean that this meant something. It doesn't."_

_ He walked away._

"Please," the man who once was a boy muttered into his pillow. "Please, don't go..."

His mind ran over the day, fixing on that one face, older than he had last seen it. They were all older. His dream self admitted the truth he could never say out loud.

"We missed you. Wasn't the same after you left."

He remembered the day another of them had left, and shivered, drawing sheets over his head.

In her dream, she could pretend she was still fifteen. Or even ten, or seven. Little and innocent and stupid.

She slept in short bursts, always awoken by a noise she couldn't put a name to. It sounded something like laughter and pirates, wind brushing through children that couldn't yet grasp that this wasn't forever.

Short bursts of dreams danced in front of her, smelling of ether and wasted years. The images were fuzzy, covered in snow, but everyone's hair stood on end, and everyone followed her home.

Flash. She sat up, breathing hard, and pulled her blanket around her, ears straining for the telltale noise that her night was over.

Sometimes, waking from a dream is the hardest thing to do. Fitful, terrifying awakening, and you open your eyes to pitch black, straining out at nothing, and thinking you see things that are no longer there. Sometimes, the awakening is the hardest part of dreaming. Because your dream sticks around you, like cobwebs, and if you forget to brush it away, you can get tangled and confused.

Sometimes, when you wake up from a dream, you see faces you haven't seen in years. Or you wake up to yourself, wearing a different face. One of the past. And for a moment, it is real.

You may scream.

But what if it was truth? No illusion? If faces long gone were suddenly in front of you again?

Would you rejoice? Morn?

Would it break you?

END.

* * *

Part II: Lightning Strikes Twice

She walked down the road, hand clenched over her stomach, vision swimming.

_ She looked at her daughter, and turned away. Betrayal. That was what this was._

She squeezed her eyes shut, gasping at the pain. Oh God, the pain.

_She had to get rid of it. Had to see it gone._

She fell to the ground. "Mama!"

_ She always had the right intentions._

She had never felt so alone. Dead and gone to any who cared about her, dying in a street she never knew.

_ She couldn't believe her daughter didn't come back._

She opened her eyes. No. She wasn't alone. Because there was someone inside of her, and she would not let this die.

_ She was dead. Her daughter was dead._

She would not let her daughter die.

_ She cried at the funeral, feeling a punch to the gut every time she saw the inscription. Anemia. Lies._

Lies. That would be her name. Lies. "Come on," she muttered. "Let go."

_ She waved away the hands that offered her comfort. She did not deserve any comfort._

She could hardly feel the hands as they tug and lift her, but she did not hate them. She may not deserve this help, but it had come, and she would take it.

_ She would not leave her room for days._

She was in labour, pain stretching the minutes to days.

_ She awoke to guilt, hard, dark, and so cold. Every morning._

She awoke to a warmth that filled every once of her. She held her daughter. She cried.

_ She was so alone._

She was no longer alone.

_ She grew old._

She grew up.

_ She could feel her heart freezing._

She thought her heart would burn a hole through her chest.

_ She remembered a birth. Everyone said she looked so much like her mother._

She was glad. Her daughter looked like her father. Beautiful.

_ She weakened._

She grew stronger.

_ She had let her angel fall away. She felt heavy and nothing felt like home._

She held her angel in her arms. The angel opened her eyes, pale blue colored eyes, and she was home.

_ She could feel, somewhere, her girl was waiting for her._

She knew, one day, their waiting would be over.

_ She closed her eyes. For the last time._

She closed her eyes, for a little while. The roar of lightning announced a death, and she knew. She could feel it.

Lightning crashes.

_An old mother dies. _  
_A new mother cries._

The angel opens her eyes.

_ ~Oh, now feel it, comin' back again. _  
_ Like a rollin' thunder, chasing the wind._  
_ Forces pullin' from the center of the earth again._  
_ I can feel it._~

"We're going home, Lies. Going home." Too late. Too late. Like mother like daughter, always too late.

* * *

An experiment with repitition. Hope you enjoyed. Now you know who our little Lies' mother is. Did you see it coming? I know some of you did.

I do not own the lyrics in this piece. In fact, I believe this piece may, in fact, belong to the lyrics.


	7. Spring

A chapter. To everyone reading this (and I am so grateful, to each and every one of you), I hope you enjoy. This has not been beta'd, so if you spot any mistakes, please let me know~

* * *

It took Melchoir almost exactly one full hour, after they had finished dinner, to convince his mother that he was going to be staying at one of the inns, instead of at home. She actually clung to his arm, as if he were a phantom that would disperse as soon as he left her sight. It took his father, slowly getting over the awkwardness of seeing his estranged son again, taking Melchior's side to convince her.

"He's a grown man. Let him do what he wishes."

She sighed, but let go of his arm, only to pull him into a tight hug.

"I expect you back here no later than lunch, yes?"

He accepted this with a nod, and a kiss to her cheek. She looked just as he remembered her, but faded memories easily smoothed over the wrinkles that may have appeared since he left. Or because of his leaving.

He should have come home sooner, he realizes. He waited much too long.

"Do you remember that girl... Anna, was it? She took over her parents' inn. She's a lovely young woman now. You should stay there!"

And he blanched, but agreed. Because if that helped his mother feel assured that he was sticking around for a little while, then alright. It seemed that coincidence was dictating that he see more of the children he had used to know. And he was being forced to confront the ghosts of his past all at once. But he could do it. He no longer had any interest in fighting fate.

So, after kissing his mother guten nacht, and a solid handshake with his father, in which the elder tried to communicate much too much and the younger understood a little too little, he grabbed his worn bag, and wandered through the streets that really felt like a map of his memories. If he didn't look down at his changed body, he could almost imagine no time had passed. Just like with his mother, there were small differences, but again he chose to ignore them. It was easier to deal with, that way.

But with this illusion came the memories. He scowled softly to himself, and made sure to totally avoid the outskirts of the town. Where a certain old farmhouse lay. And the church, with it's ever-growing graveyard. How many more small graves had it collected? He only felt a little childish, closing his eyes as he passed the school. it was justified, and no one was watching him. He was allowed some childish moments, as he walked through the set of his childhood.

After what felt like much too long, he reached the inn that Anna's family had once owned. It was all hers now, was it? He hadn't heard about her parents passing away. Did he know her, had he known her well enough to offer his sympathies, he mused. He would just wait, and see how this reunion went. He was doing well so far, but that couldn't last, surely.

And he was right. It took a long time for someone to answer the door, and when someone did, he only had time to take in the long brown hair and the big, laughing eyes, and _my, she's grown up_ before there was a muttered curse, and the door was slammed in his face again.

He stared at it.

After a moment of trying to figure out what, exactly, just happened, he knocked on the door again. Had she recognized him? He didn't remember doing anything to Anna, nothing that would have caused that reaction. Well, he was the reason Wendla was dead, yes, but that wasn't common knowledge. Just his personal burden to bear.

He could hear scuffling behind the door, muffled voices, and Melchior wondered if Anna was hiding a man. Strange, she was always the good girl. But then, Otto was always the awkwardly larger boy, and that had changed. Unlike with his mother, and the town, the differences of his class couldn't be ignored just by him closing his eyes.

"Hello?"

The door opened a crack, and a single eye stared at him, making him shuffle awkwardly and rearrange his hands on his suitcase.

"Hello, sir. We're closed, I apologize for any inconvenience..."

Melchior didn't want to do any more walking tonight. So he took a chance. "Anna?"

The door opened a little wider, so that her whole face was showing. There was no recognition in her eyes, not yet, but there was suspicion, and the hand holding the door was clenched. "Do I know you, Herr?"

He nodded, wanting to look away, but instead flashing her a weak smile. "I think you used to, Frauline? We used to go to school together." We used to play pirates together.

And there was the recognition, as her eyes lit up, and she gasped, one hand flying over her mouth. "Melchior Gabor?"

"Ja." He lifted up his luggage, so that she could see it, and flashed a more comfortable smile. "May I come in? I'm in town for a few days, and I-"

She opened the door wide, and almost moved to hug him, catching herself at the last moment with a sheepish grin. "You can stay here, of course." She turned towards an open doorway, just as a head with tousled black hair poked out of it. Anna cleared her throat, as the young man stared at him.

"Ernst, you remember-"

Fate seemed to have arranged for this to happen all at once. He didn't have to pretend to miss anything, with Ernst's appearance. The boy really did look the exact same as he had before Melchior had left. Same childish features and over-bright eyes. Of course, Melchior couldn't have known that Ernst had lost the innocence in those eyes, lost it for quite a while, and it was only the double secret, carefully wrapped up in each other and sleeping peacefully in one of the inn's rooms, that had restored that almost alluring charisma. Then again, Melchior did not know much of Ernst to begin with, so perhaps this was not his to know, either.

Most people did not bother to look closely at a child's personality, and Ernst was still channeling that child's gaze, in many ways. In all ways but one, really.

But none of that was to be dwelt on, in these moments. Ernst fully emerged from the door, beaming at Melchior, and he, too, has to restrain himself from hugging the boy. Or man, now, really. More so than any of them, Melchior looked the part of the adult they were all supposed to be playing. Features that had once been boyishly handsome were now just handsome, and Ernst felt his cheeks flush. He had once taken a liking to Melchior Gabor. Like every other person in their group of old pretend pirates who was so inclined, it appeared. And Ernst could not fault his younger self for this crush. He had forgotten the air of charm Melchior wore. The feeling that he could make everything make sense, even when he couldn't.

"Melchior Gabor!" He greeted him with a huge grin, and only gushed a little, really.

"Ernst Robel," Melchior smiled in return, and it was silly, but Ernst let his heart do it's little fluttery swoon, even as he thought of the young woman upstairs, tucked into bed with the daughter than belonged, at least by blood, to this man here.

Anna was thinking of the same thing, apparently, as she was staring at the stairs with a look of slight concern. Her voice, when she spoke, was distant. "Melchi- Herr Gabor is probably tired. Ernst, can you show him a room? The one on this floor should be fine." Anna knew this house, after all, and she could hear the footsteps, creaking on the old floorboards above her. One of the girls upstairs had woken up, and she had just gotten her friend back, it would be cruel to throw this at her so quickly.

Ernst nodded, his eyes on Anna, and then turned back towards Melchior, smile still in place, voice still soft and kind. "If you would follow me?"

Melchior laughed quietly, and it felt nice. "Melchior is fine. We are old friends, after all." And Ernst couldn't help himself, sneaking close to give Melchior a quick, one armed hug, before picking up his bag, and starting off down the hallway. "Your room's just down here, Melchior."

Melchior followed him, as he heard a low voice, too quiet for him to quite catch, float down from the top of the stairs. He's not at the right angle to see the speaker, though it sounds female. She must have asked a question, because Anna replied that they had another visitor, and that she could go back to sleep, no worries. There would be time for talking in the morning.

Ernst seemed to think the same thing, as he showed Melchior the room and then wished him good night, before closing the door behind him. What a strange couple those two made, Melchior couldn't help but think. Anna and Ernst, who would have thought? Maybe some, but he was not one of them. They clearly worked well together, though. His bed was well made, the room homey. There was no reason Melchior could find as to why he could not doze off. Finally, with a growl of frustration, he pushed himself out of bed, and stumbled out the door of his room. Maybe a breath of fresh air would help settle him down.

He found his way to the front door easier than he thought he would, considering that it was dark enough that he couldn't even see his door, once he had taken a step away from it. Everything was an inky black, as he felt his way along the hallway, until he saw the moon peeking in through the front door's small window. He pushed the door open with a soft sigh, the air cold but welcoming, that hint of spring returning. And so comforting was this feeling, knowing the long winter was coming to an end, that he didn't even notice that he was not the only one seeking refuge here, bathed in moonlight.

She was shivering slightly, and Melchior felt the odd need to wrap his arms around her. She was skinny, and small, almost child-like, and maybe the little Lies was still on his mind, because usually he was not so drawn to- And then she turned.

He stared.

She stared.

Neither could speak. Neither wanted to speak, because there were no words for this.

He moved first, because he had to touch her, make sure she wouldn't float away, like she had the last time he had seen her. His hands started at her shoulders, but without meaning to, they ended up across her back, as he pulled her into his chest, hiding his face in her dark, wavy hair.

She might have protested, because this wasn't how this was supposed to be, exactly, but there was no way. Any protests she had been considering were washed away by the tears streaming down her face.

Around the reunited children, a warm wind blew. Spring again, spring again, the wind promised. The children were returning home. It would be a good spring.

* * *

And so, surprising even me, this story ends. There will be an epilogue, and then a sequel of sorts, focusing on the other children as they return home, or attempt to leave, and of Melchior and Wendla learning how to know one another again. It is, as of yet, untitled. I hope everyone has enjoyed. Thank you for reading.


End file.
